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Episode 0
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Pierre Havelock is the sort of man people look at and think words like, 'Arrogant, Proud, Aristocratic' - And those are just the polite phrases used.
To give credit where due, he is also the type who understands why others think that. In his fifties but not looking much over forty (excluding a head of grey hair), his life is that of a highly successful and quite wealthy author.
He was once overheard offhandedly mumbling, 'People are always jealous of those they perceive as having more. People can always rationalise their own insecurities as being someone else's, the fault of someone more important.'
However, Mr. Havelock OBE, best-selling author, household name and millionaire, does not have it all. In fact, in his opinion he, 'Lost it all a very long time ago, Thank you very much!'
Not that many would actually know this. By all accounts, the author simply appeared some few decades ago. Despite relentless effort by hordes of journalists over the years, there is no proof the man even existed before publishing his first novel. No school friends, traceable family or even country of origin. To all concerned parties, Pierre Havelock had just appeared one day and started writing books. 'Quite successful ones at that.'
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
And so, when in a flash of seemingly familiar light, a blinding white-hot glow of the world's atoms shifting, squirming, burning open a hole in the very reality of this Earth's fabric occurred - All inside Mr.Havelock's quaint little walnut-wood lined study - Pierre found himself to be most displeased. Even more so when through this altogether overly generic light show, that he for one, would have found, 'Far too trite a contrivance' to ever write into one of his books, 'Thank you very much!'
When out of this miracle of the bending and collapsing and reasserting all at once of the very space-time continuum itself (that peculiarly seemed to smell of toast) stepped out none other than what could only have described as a 'Fictional Knight': one with all the likeness to a character of his own creation, of that character--
Well, it would be fair to say that as Pierre Havelock stared up from his thick leatherwork chair over at the young woman stepping through that blistering portal - The girl who couldn't have been far into her twenties, with her bleach-white hair in a neat braid down past one shoulder, and a genuinely ridiculous 'Knight's get-up' covering her from head to toe - At that moment during his evening tea, Pierre Havelock thought only one thing;
‘No, just no. No, Thank you very much indeed!’
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